


Tumble Homeward

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Awkward First Times, Bad Sex, Domestic, Experienced Sherlock, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Bottoming, First Time Topping, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, John "Three Continents" Watson, Kissing, M/M, Negotiations, Oral Sex, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Romance, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:13:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes sets out to educate John "Experience of Women" Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a) It's Holmes's 160th birthday (6th Jan, 2014), so I wanted to get him a present, aka get him laid.  
> b) This is currently a work-in-progress, which I will endeavour to finish and post without leaving its parts hanging too bloody long. 3 parts, 3 weeks, I promise. #BSIweekend  
> c) They have a lot of sex. That's it, that's the plot.

"Holmes," Watson said finally, _finally_ , after nearly a week of indecision about something, "I need to speak with you about a matter which I am loathe to bring up, but find increasingly difficult to ignore."

I had been contemplating the movement of clouds beyond our window, but was roused instantly by his tone of voice. I took my pipe out of my mouth and sat up. Watson was standing by the fireplace, his hands in his trouser pockets, fairly vibrating with suppressed anxiety. He had worried his lower lip to a brilliant shade of crimson, and his handsome face was pinched with concern. "My dear man," I said, "what is it?"

"This is a very grave matter, Holmes," he said, "and I beg you will hear me out to the end before passing judgement. Please, will you do that for me?"

I stared at him. I hadn't the slightest idea what he was on about. I said, "Of course I will."

Watson took a deep breath, steadying himself, and I saw him straighten his shoulders: a soldier, going into battle. My heart began to pound.

"It has recently come to my attention," he began, and then faltered, "well, no, that's not entirely true. It isn't recent at all. In fact, I have struggled with it for longer than I'd like to admit—"

"Watson," I said, reaching a hand out to him as if I could touch him from across the room. "Out with it, man."

"Oh, God forgive me," Watson said, covering his face for a moment with one hand. When he pulled it away, his expression was one of determination. "Holmes, your friendship means more to me than anything, and I know I am putting it at risk by even considering the possibility of your continued association. But I can't bear it any longer. I need you to know, and I hope that everything we have been to one another up until now carries enough weight with you. I hope I have not read you wrongly, to think we might go on as we always have."

I was torn. Part of me wanted to get up and shake him to dislodge the confession and get it over with. The other part hoped he would never come around to saying anything of import, for I knew what was behind his fumbling would change our relationship forever. Once he said his piece, there would be no un-saying.

"Despite everything I thought I knew about my own nature, I cannot go on denying it any longer," Watson said, and I knew he was coming to his point. "Holmes, I have feelings for you that go beyond decency or brotherhood. I fear I am inescapably in love with you."

Surprise was written on my face; my mouth hung open in my best imitation of a fish gulping air. Could it be true? The one fantasy I never thought to hold on my hands, being presented to me with almost no effort on my own part? The fellow I had lived with and worked with and never suspected, confessing his attraction— his affection— for me? My dearest friend, my heart and soul, the man I had cheated death to protect, standing before me with shaking hands, begging me to accept him?

I remember the day I met John Watson with perfect clarity. I remember the smell of the lab I was working in, the excitement of my chemical breakthrough, and the sound of the door opening to admit my colleague Stamford. I remember the gaunt, war-torn figure that followed him, and the open surprise on his face when I deduced his recent assignment. I remember the list of vices he admitted to, and the ones I offered to him. I knew that day would change my life, as this one was doing once again.

I was selfish. I had wanted him from that first moment. But I was not a fool, and it wasn't until much, much later that I even began to hint at my deviant ways. Not until I knew Watson was a friend, tried and true, did I tell him about my association with Victor Trevor. Watson didn't so much as blink, though he edited the details of the story for public consumption.

"I have shocked you," Watson said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please, forgive me. I will spend the night at my club, and I will send someone for my things in the morning."

I caught his sleeve as he tried to pass me on the way to the door, and stood up. "No," I said, "my dear boy, I am sorry. You surprised me, that's all." I let his sleeve go and took his hand, slowly, careful not to spook him. Looking into his face, I said, "Watson, your confession brings me more joy than I can say."

He blinked. "What?"

"You said you hoped you had not read me wrongly; you have not. But did you not expect I might have… some feelings of my own on the subject?"

"Oh," said he, and looked down at our hands. "I suppose I didn't think that far."

I couldn't help but smile. My chest felt full of light and warmth, and I wondered if I did not contain it somehow, would it spill out and fill the room? Would it give us away? I squeezed his hand, and felt him, tentatively, squeeze back.

"By the roundabout way you got to your point," I said, "you have revealed perhaps more than you meant to. Am I wrong in my understanding that you have never before loved a man?"

His cheeks went suddenly pink, and he closed his eyes. "No," he said. "You are not wrong. I have never— Holmes, never in my life— Mary was—"

"A magnificent woman," I said. "I know."

His voice was small and sad when he said, "I loved her."

"No one would doubt it," I replied. "But, never— in the army? You never sought any companionship?"

Watson flushed further, shaking his head. "Never," he said. "I would have had to be very ignorant indeed to fail to see what went on around me, but I never— I never desired the company."

"But now you do."

Almost a whisper, "Yes."

My heart was fluttering like a bird in my chest, and I gripped his hand more tightly. "Watson," I said, "John, look at me." He did, reluctantly opening his eyes to meet my gaze. I could read the fear on his face, so I rubbed my thumb across his knuckles, hoping to soothe. He had been the brave one to initiate, now I had to lead. "Do you trust me?" I asked.

"With my life," he said, and then smiled, "and, I suppose, with my virtue."

A hot flush of desire overtook me, and I let out a sharp breath. "I want very much to kiss you," I said. "May I?"

"Please," he replied.

With my other hand I put two fingers beneath his chin, tipping it up towards me. His eyes darkened, his lips parted, and I steadied myself, lust and affection pulsing in my blood. Never kissed a man before, my God. What he'd been missing. I hoped against hope that what I had to offer would satisfy. I was clean-shaven, but I did not have the complexion of a woman, and I knew I would taste of my morning pipe. It would be nothing like the kisses he had shared with his late wife. I hesitated.

"Oh, for God's sake," Watson muttered, and pressed our mouths together. I moaned, despite myself, and felt him smile. I kissed him again. His lips were soft, tasting of tea and tobacco, and his moustache tickled my lip and cheek. I slid my hand up his jaw to cradle his face as we kissed, while the other held tight to his hand between us. He leaned into me, his fingers finding my waist. He opened his mouth slowly, in response to my gentle probing, and I brushed my tongue against his, eliciting a perfectly delightful little noise of surprise.

He began to respond, kissing back now, licking into my mouth and teasing at the edges of my control. I was awash in sensation, drowning in this glorious man's attentions. My blood was up, my shameful body eager, and unconsciously I pressed myself against him, my pelvis against his.

"Oh," he said, jumping back as if my touch burned him. Instantly he blushed, ashamed at what he'd done, and I put a hand over my mouth, equally dismayed at my own thoughtlessness.

"I'm so sorry," I said. "Watson—"

"No, please," he said, shaking his head and reaching for me once more. He took my hands in his. "That was— that was my fault, I didn't— I don't know what I expected, really." He smiled at me, sheepish. "You, of all people."

"What, I?" I asked. "I am a _man_ , Watson, as I'm sure has not escaped your notice."

"Of course not," he scoffed, and flushed red again. "It's only— rather unusual, to be kissing a fellow taller than I am, and then to feel— well. I wasn't prepared."

"Shall we sit down?" I asked, unable to address the second part of the problem which was determined to get worse. Seated, we were nearly of a height.

"Yes, all right," Watson murmured, and we crossed the room together. I stopped my hands from shaking. When we were sitting on the settee, half-turned towards one another, our knees bumping, I lifted my palm once more to touch his cheek, and he turned his face into my caress. When I leaned in to kiss him again, he met me with aplomb, and soon I was on the receiving end of a rather passionate embrace. He slid his arm around my waist and held me fast, with the other hand cupping the back of my neck, his fingers in my hair. I melted into him, finding my grip on his shoulder and thigh.

Again, my eagerness got the better of me, and my hand crept up the firm length of his leg. He tolerated it for a while, but by the time I had reached the halfway point he was decidedly tense, and he pulled away again to plant his hand over mine.

"Apologies," I said, withdrawing it. Watson licked his lips unconsciously, and my jaw clenched with want. A smile flickered across his face, and he reached to take that errant hand in his.

"No, I— it is I who should apologise. I'm afraid that is becoming the refrain of the day, isn't it?"

"Not at all," I protested. I rubbed my thumb across his knuckles and surreptitiously felt the callouses on his fingers.

"It's a damn strange thing," Watson said, his fingers still in my hair at the base of my skull, "to feel this way about you."

"Whatever your countrymen may say, it's not an unnatural state," I protested hotly. "If it were so unusual, the Greeks—"

"No, I only meant— not that, Holmes; I am entirely in agreement with you on that point, although I had not expected it to be so— that is, women have always been my area of expertise—" I snorted— "and what I meant to say was that, seeing as my experience with women has not exactly been sparse—"

"You're rambling again," I said, tucking in close to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Yes," he said, and returned the kiss, "I rather am."

"If I understand you," I said, resting our joined hands now back upon his knee, "you find yourself in the unfamiliar position of being seduced, whereas in the past you have always been the one performing the seduction."

Watson cleared his throat. "Yes, I suppose that is it. I find myself rather out of sorts; uncertain about the path and unsure of my footing."

I was at that moment experiencing a strange mixture of dismay— that he was so out of his realm of familiar interaction that he would admit as much to me— and elation— that I would be the one to guide him to bliss and debauchery. My heart felt like a sodium reaction: too hot and fizzing madly.

"I will show you," I said, "but only at a pace at which you are comfortable. I may not have your ways with women, Watson, and I do not know to what fashion you are accustomed when it comes to courting, but I swear to you," and here I clenched his hand hard and looked into his beautiful, familiar, trusting eyes, "I will do my utmost to win your favour."

Watson laughed, then, and I was almost hurt, except that he softened the guffaw with a tender kiss pressed to my downturned lips.

"Holmes," he said, "weren't you listening? There's nothing to be done about my favour: that is and always has been yours." An unfamiliar expression stole across his face, and I realised with a hot surge of lust that it was coyness. "For the rest of me, however, you will have to apply yourself."

"Oh, you wicked man," I told him in a whispered rush, and captured his mouth once more.

It was at this moment, much to my chagrin, that the bell downstairs was yanked with shocking force. Watson and I jerked apart, stared at one another, and then made the mutual decision to vacate the settee. By the time we were halfway across the room from one another, me smoothing down my waistcoat with trembling hands and he situated by the window, our sitting room door bust open and a harried-looking young man crossed the threshold.

"Mr Holmes!" he cried, looking between us, too flustered to notice our state of disarray. "You mustn't blame me, I am nearly mad. Mr Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector McFarlane!"

+++

The case of Jonas Oldacre and his curiously built home in Norwood was cleared up in a few days, but upon returning, our domestic situation was not the same as it had been. I had felt Watson's mouth against mine, with quite a lot of enthusiasm, and now I could think of little else. He had touched me more often during the case than he had before— brushing against me, resting his hand on my elbow, getting my attention by a tap rather than a word— and I longed to be allowed to return the physical affection.

At home, in the safety of our rooms, I could. The morning after Oldacre's arrest, I came down to breakfast and found Watson already installed at the table, his napkin tucked into his shirt. I touched the back of his shoulder in greeting, and he looked up at me, smiling. For a moment we were suspended, and then I ducked down to press a chaste kiss to his lips. It was warm and sweet and nothing like the desperate, urgent kisses I had shared with other men. Those had been almost an afterthought to the furtive coupling done in bordellos or alley ways or University dormitories. This was pure, and simple, and mine.

He sighed when we parted, and I sat down across from him.

"Good morning to you, too," he said, blushing and busying himself with his steak and eggs. Under the table, I insinuated my foot between both of his, feeling positively buoyant.

This variety of casual intimacy increased over the course of several days, with gentle touches and soft, unassuming kisses, until I was quite convinced that Watson and I had entered into matrimony without either of us noticing the ceremony. I had never treated another person this way, and yet it came as naturally as breathing. It felt like an organic extension of our friendship; I cherished it. Watson took it in stride, never faltering at the planes of my body when we embraced, nor my calloused, chemical-stained hands when I cupped his face to kiss him. I did not press him for more, happy enough in the liberties I was allowed.

Until, of course, we tumbled through the sitting room door of Baker Street at half-past three in the morning after a long stake-out and then a rapid foot chase through the alleyways of London. Our quarry had been in the habit of breaking into used furniture stores and junk shops taking things to sell in his own dingy second-hand shop. We caught him carrying an armful of candlesticks out the back alley, and he took off the moment he spotted us. Watson chased him down with admirable speed and had him pinned face-first to a brick wall three blocks away by the time I reached them.

The police arrested him and we were heartily thanked, and I brazenly took Watson's gloved hand in mine as we rounded the corner. Rather than pull away in surprise, he gripped my fingers and beamed at me, and we took the quickest way home that I knew.

Leaning against the sitting room door with him, trying to keep our mirth quiet, I was overcome with affection and desire, and I cut off his breathless laughter with a kiss.

Instantly his hands came up to my shoulders, holding me close, and I took his hat off his head to kiss him more deeply. The roots of his hair were lightly damp with sweat from the chase, and he smelled like the fog of my beloved city. I opened his mouth with my tongue, pressing myself wantonly against him. He groaned, deep in his chest, and pushed my coat off my shoulders. I hung it up without breaking from the kiss, and followed it with my jacket.

I couldn't take him to bed just yet, but this was a promising turn of events.

Watson's hands slid down my back to the top of my arse and pressed, pushing my hips into his. He was half-hard, and he manoeuvred me until our legs were tangled, my thigh pressed into his groin and his into mine. I pulled back a fraction to look into his eyes, and saw nothing but joy and wanting there. Biting my lip, I began to move slowly against him, grinding my cock into the groove of his hip, flexing the muscles of my thigh to rub against his. His breath hitched, his lips parted and his eyes going dark, and I did it again. The play of feeling across his face was fascinating. His face was flushed, the colour high on his cheekbones, and his eyelashes were soft smudges on his cheeks when he closed his eyes. He worried his lower lip with his teeth, holding in a moan, so I kissed him to free it.

Now the only sound was our harsh breathing and the slow, wet sound of our mouths. I shuddered, my hips rolling almost without my direction. I shifted my grip from Watson's hair to his hipbones, leaning back again until we were joined from knee to pelvis with space between our chests. Watson fumbled for the buttons on my waistcoat, and I shook it off to the floor behind me, following it with my collar. He wriggled out of his own coat and jacket, leaving them to pool on the carpet behind his heels, while I carried on with my slow, intentional grind.

Watson began to kiss my face, my chin, tipping my head back with gentle fingers to press his lips to the underside of my jaw. I moved where he directed me, and shuddered hard when he kissed the shell of my ear. Amorous attention— or indeed, platonic attention— had never been paid to such parts of my body, and the touch sent lightning down my spine.

I was aching, my stomach twisted with desire and my prick throbbing between my legs. I could feel the twitch of Watson's cock against my inner thigh. My mouth watered. Would that be too much? Would he shy from that? Perhaps not, I thought, but the idea of parting myself from this close embrace was abhorrent to me at the moment. Sweat was breaking out upon my brow. I needed more; I needed to show him what pleasure there was to be had in my arms. God, the ecstasy I could wring out of his body with one hand alone!

With great effort I stilled my hips, and Watson groaned in disappointment against my collarbone.

"Hush, man," I said, letting go of the waist of his trousers to slip my hand between us, seeking the fly instead. He inhaled sharply when he felt what I was after, but his efforts to leave a love bite on my neck the exact shape and size of his mouth did not falter. I had to shove past the pressure of my own thigh to get into his trousers, but backing off to make it easier on myself seemed too difficult.

Then he was undone, and I yanked open the string on his drawers and plunged my hand inside. His grip on my waist went tight, and I palmed the bare, iron-hard length of his cock.

"Holmes," he huffed, digging in his teeth.

I squirmed, readjusting him so that his erection pointed upwards, the wet head of his prick just visible in the open V of his drawers. He hid his face against my chest, perhaps embarrassed, perhaps overwhelmed. I could feel the heat of his cheek through my shirt. I pressed a kiss to his hair and felt him smile.

In that small space between our bodies, I touched him slowly. My fingertips found the root of his cock and buried themselves in coarse, curly hair, while the heel of my hand cradled his crown, still covered by his foreskin. Some gentle manipulation, and it was sliding up and down; I watched, riveted, as the tender glans of his prick was revealed and swallowed up again. Watson was trembling, his hips starting to push up into my hand.

"Kiss me," I said in his ear, finding my voice reduced to a hoarse whisper, and he did, seeking me out almost blindly. He clutched at me, fingers clenched in the material of my shirt.

To get a better grip, I had to pull back, but I kept kissing him as I did so, readjusting our hips so that I could close my fist around the girth of his cock. He moaned against my mouth, and jolted when I swept my thumb over the slick head of his prick.

"Good?" I asked.

He said, "Yes, God, yes," and pressed his forehead against mine. His eyes were closed, his eyelashes fluttering. His lips were swollen and red, so I bit them again for good measure.

I jerked him slowly at first, trying to rein myself in despite the heat of his prick in my hand and the warm, strong scent of sex between us. My own cock throbbed heavily, and when Watson shifted his weight and pressed against me once more, I couldn't hold in my noise of pleasure. His eyes opened, and the hunger in them made me tremble. I began to move faster, compelled by the look on his face. His breathing was uneven, stuttering exhalations and sharp inhalations, his mouth half-open. I kissed it, and then mirrored what he had done to me, pressing my mouth to his cheek, his jaw, the spot under his ear, the tender slope of his throat.

"Oh," he said, as I bit him gently over his pulse, " _oh_."

He was close to his crisis. I could feel it in the tremors in his body and the way my fingers were slick with his desire. His hips were rolling eagerly now, rutting into my grip, and he pressed his forehead to the front of my shoulder. He let go of me for a moment, and then he was trying to get his hand between us as well, his handkerchief gripped tightly between his fingers.

"Give me that," I said, taking it, and he laughed and let go and and tipped his head back against the door, his face creased with mounting pleasure. I wanted to taste him so badly, wanted to get on my knees now and suck him down, let him fuck my mouth and spill himself down my throat. I was shamefully near my own peak, just from the closeness of our bodies and the fantasies racing through my mind. I worked him quickly, tightening my hand, his cock pushing smoothly through my fingers.

I felt Watson tense all over, his hips rising, and then he was coming with a full-body shudder, spurting into his handkerchief and groaning aloud at the ceiling. I kissed him to keep him quiet, swallowing his moans, and coaxed him through the orgasm, wishing I could track every muscular twitch of his face, measure the pressure of his hands on my body, catalogue the texture of his mouth at this moment.

He shuddered and sighed and relaxed, slumping against the door. I eased my hand out and wiped my fingers on a clean corner of the handkerchief, licking my lips self-consciously. My ears were hot. I was trembling myself, my cock so hard in my trousers I thought I might faint. Watson sensed it, and he kissed me deeply, readjusting his grip and his stance so that I straddled his strong thigh. My hips began to move without my volition, and I moaned helplessly.

"Come on, yes," he said in my ear, both hands firmly on my arse. He pushed and pulled me, urging me on, as I grasped the sleeves of his shirt and rutted shamelessly against his hip. I couldn't stop; nothing, not even Scotland Yard, could pry me from this man or stay my orgasm. I pressed my face to the collar of his shirt and muffled a cry as I spent myself in my trousers.

I clung to him as I recovered, embarrassed and deliriously happy and shaking all over. Watson kissed my bare neck and my shoulder through my shirt, and then my cheek and the corner of my mouth, and finally squarely, so that I could taste him again. I closed my eyes and held him close, and we stayed there for a few long minutes.

Soon, though, I felt a tremor in his body that originated in the middle of his chest, and when I pulled back in confusion I realised he was laughing. He grinned at me, his eyes sparkling, and kissed me again.

"Oh, Holmes," he murmured, thumbing my bottom lip and beaming. "That was perfect. Just perfect."

And, even though we righted our clothes and parted ways, returning to sleep in our own beds at that late hour, I had to agree.


	2. Chapter 2

The idea occurred to me one quiet evening when Watson sat across from me, as he always did, with the paper in his lap and his feet upon the fireplace brazier. I had spent the morning occupied with a minor mystery that took me no further than my personal encyclopaedia in the bookcase, and late that afternoon we had gone for a long ramble through the streets. I had tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow and he had covered that hand with his own, and so we strolled almost as a courting pair. He had told me a few stories of his time during my absence, and I had amused him with deductions about our fellow amblers in the park, and we had stopped for a cup of coffee on the edge of Regent's Park before returning to our home for supper. The closeness of his body, the smell of his coat and shirt and skin, the warmth of his hands; all had me enchanted and enticed, and I was having trouble focusing on the agony columns which he had passed me half an hour earlier.

I wanted him inside me, I decided, feeling my face heat at the thought. My embarrassment was absurd: I had been with plenty of other men, enough to call myself well-versed, but none of them had held my affection for long, if at all. Watson was different. Having him that way was infinitely more significant than being with any other, and I found my blood rising with the expectation.

I got up and went into my bedroom, pausing at the door to say, in a voice that was almost as steady as I wanted it to be, "Watson, if you'd do me the favour of locking the door in about ten minutes and joining me, I'd be very much obliged."

He looked up, frowning in confusion, but I shut my bedroom door before I gave up the game. I stripped out of my waistcoat, collar, and cuffs, and laid my shirt and vest over the chair by my armoire. I stepped out of my trousers, socks, and pants, and stood naked in the middle of my room for a moment. Nervousness shook me from my knees to the tips of my fingers. I mastered it, stilling myself, and found the jar of petroleum jelly on my wash stand, where it belonged with the rest of my disguise kit.

My prick was flaccid when I lay back on my bed, and I tried to keep my touch as clinical as possible. Better not to get worked up ahead of time, I thought, slicking my fingers and slipping one inside myself with a wince. My body was unaccustomed to the intrusion, clenching down, but I closed my eyes and breathed deeply through my nose. Soon I was relaxing, the muscles in my pelvis becoming used to the idea, and I could add a second finger with slow precision, and then a third. I avoided that spot inside me, knowing that, mostly unaroused, pressure against it would be jarring rather than pleasurable. Nonetheless, my prick was starting to take note and beginning to harden against my thigh. I couldn't help but picture Watson doing this for me, pressing his fingers deep into my body, staring hungrily at the place he would occupy. I bit back the noise that wanted to break free from my throat, and let myself fall from the elbow that supported me, pushing my fingers deeper.

There was a gentle tap on my bedroom door, and I fairly leapt out of bed.

"Holmes?" Watson's voice was tentative and hopeful. "It's only been about six minutes, but I'm absolutely dying with the anticipation and I wondered if it would be all right if we skipped the last four?"

I was scrambling back into my clothes, hot with embarrassment. "Just—" I said, "just—" and then my shirt was buttoned and though my trousers were unfastened I was essentially covered. I opened the door, knowing full-well what state of disarray I was in, and Watson took me in with a growing smirk. "Yes," I said, "I suppose we can dispense with the last four."

He bit his lip and slipped through the space I had left him. I pressed him back against the door as it closed, and he immediately tipped his head up in invitation. I slid my hands up his arms to his shoulders as we kissed, cradling the nape of his neck, his skin warm under my fingers. His hands found the untucked tails of my shirt and slipped beneath. His hands on my bare back made me shiver, and I pressed against him more securely. He murmured at the pressure of my burgeoning arousal, skimming his hands up my back to hold my shoulder blades in the palms of his hands.

"What were you doing?" he demanded, pulling away from the kiss to press his open mouth to the skin of my throat.

"Nothing," I said, clutching at his shoulders. He bit down on my collarbone, and I shuddered against him.

"Nothing doesn't take ten minutes," Watson said, and propelled me away from the door. The sticky-wet feeling between my thighs made me squirm, but he hardly noticed. With my help, he began to unbutton his waistcoat. We divested him of his shirt as well, and then mine came off again, and he stopped to slide his hands around my bare sides. His thumbs rested under the curves of my ribs, and his fingers spanned the width of my sides. He stared at his hands for a moment, tanned against my paler skin, and I watched his thoughts play across his face. He had told me once, offhandedly, that although as a medical man he generally advised against the wearing of corsets, there was some strange appeal to being able to reach almost all the way around his wife's waist.

My own was not so narrow, and yet he seemed to be admiring it all the same.

"I suspect you're going to show me some kind of wild act men can do together," he said, blushing and not meeting my eyes.

"Coupling with men is not so different from doing it with women," I protested, having never tested the theory myself. "I'm sure you'll be able to pick it up."

He squeezed my middle, grinning, and I draw him back to the bed. I turned us, and sat him down on the edge. He looked out of place there, shirtless, amid my rumpled bedclothes, but I decided I could quickly become accustomed to the sight. In the lamp light, I couldn't decide whether his hair was golden brown or dark blond. I ran a hand through it, inspecting the strands against my skin, and Watson took hold of my hips. I glanced down. He was looking rather apprehensively at the unfastened fly of my trousers, but as I watched his tongue darted out to wet his lip, and a pulse of desire went through me.

I bent to kiss the top of his head, and then pushed him back until he lay among my pillows. He stretched his arms above his head, the muscles in his shoulders bunching and flexing, his pectorals and abdominals pulled taut. I swallowed hard. I am strong, and can break most holds applied to me, but Watson could have easily held me down. True, it might have been easy because I wouldn't have resisted, but there was a raw, masculine strength to him that made my mouth water.

And here he was, awaiting my pleasure, smirking at me from my own bed.

I undid his trousers and stripped him of them. His erection made a prominent tent in his drawers, so I pulled them off as well.

"You, too," Watson said, nodding at my trousers that hung off my hips.  I dropped them to the floor once more, intensely conscious that I had not put my drawers back on.  My prick bobbed stiffly between my thighs, and Watson's eyes were drawn to it once again.  His lips parted, and then with visible effort he returned his gaze to my face.  

He reached for me as I knelt on the bed, and he pulled me down atop him.  I straddled his hips and bent to kiss him, tasting the anticipation in his mouth.  He ran his hands down my back, caressing, and I arched into the touch.  As he reached my buttocks and turned to stroke his palms down my thighs, I put a hand between us to grip his prick and point it upwards.

Watson caught on just as I braced myself on his chest, and said, “Oh, Holmes, you can’t be ser—” as I positioned his cock against my hole and sank back.  His mouth fell open and his hands went tight on my knees, and he said, “Good lord, Holmes!”

It hurt a bit, but the lubrication made all the difference, and after a long, shuddering moment I was sitting on his thighs.

“Oh my God,” Watson said, reduced to a blasphemous whisper, “Oh my God.”

“Give us a minute,” I gasped, eyes squeezed shut, adjusting to the incredible pressure of his cock inside me.  I shifted, rolling my hips, and the rasp of his hair against my buttocks made me shiver.  There-- perfect.  God in Heaven, it had been a long time.  Somehow I’d forgotten how good this felt.  I opened my eyes and looked down into his face.

He looked like he’d been struck by lightning: utterly shocked.  

“Oh my God,” he said again, taking hold of my hips now, his thumbs pressing into my abdomen.  My cock had softened during the moment of penetration, but it was stiffening up again as I started to move.  Watson licked his lips and let out a shaking breath.  “That’s what you were doing,” he said hoarsely.  “Getting yourself— ready.”

“Yes.”

“Let me do it next time.”

I shuddered hard, digging my fingertips into his firm pectorals.  “Yes!”

It was slow at first; I rose up on my knees an inch or two, and sank down again. Watson's eyelids fluttered. I kissed his face, pulling up once more, and he breathed out hotly against my collarbones. His prick was perfect, reaching deep inside me, dragging against my inner walls, and I spread my legs eagerly to grind myself down harder. He bit off a little cry as I did so, and I reached for his hands.

Lacing our fingers together, I pressed his hands into the pillows above his head. He stared up at me in wonder, his eyes sparkling. I leaned on his hands as I lifted myself and watched the way his mouth opened on a breath. He wasn't new to fucking, God knows, but the idea that I'd introduced him to this particular sensation made my heart soar.

He began to move against me, digging his heels into the bedclothes, lifting his hips to meet mine. His cock plunged deep, striking all the right nerves inside me. When I went still, he grinned and began to hammer me from below, sending shocks up my spine.

"Tell me," Watson demanded, gripping my fingers hard. "I can't read your mind from the path of your eyes, and anyway I don't know what I'm doing."

"Oh, God," I said, squeezing back, "but you're doing it splendidly."

He breathed a laugh that was half a sigh, and pressed his lips to the back of my hand.

"I want you on top of me," I said in a rush.

"Jesus, yes." He let go of my hand to push at my hip, and I lifted myself regretfully off his lap, the wet sound of our bodies parting making me wince. Watson grinned and shifted himself to the side to give me room. 

Rather than recline on my back, as he'd apparently been expecting given the look on his face, I situated myself on my elbows and knees, fighting a furious blush. I raked a hand through my hair and glanced at him through my fingers.

His voice was a rough whisper when he asked, "Like that?"

"Like this," I agreed. Between my thighs, my cock twitched in eagerness. I missed the feel of him inside me already, and my head was spinning with want. I clenched my teeth to keep from tacking on a, _Please._

Watson rose to his knees and pressed a kiss to the top of my spine, and then to each of my thoracic vertebrae as he moved around behind me. His mouth was warm and soft, but his prick was rigid when he pressed it between my cheeks. For a minute he teased me, rubbing the length of his cock against me, while I clawed at the sheets and buried my moans in the pillow. Soon my back was arching in desperation, my body hungry for him, and then the fat, damp head of his prick was pressing into me once more, spreading me open slowly as he eased his hips forwards.  I fumbled back for a grip on his arse and pulled, spearing myself on his cock.

Watson swore through his teeth, his hands going tight on my waist.  He shifted on his knees, the head of his cock dragging sweetly against my prostate, and I muffled a groan.

“You’re not hurt?” he asked, voice rough with the strain of staying still.

“No, no,” I managed, “quite the opposite.”

I felt his grip ease, and he gave an experimental thrust.  It rocked me to the core, every nerve ending in my body lighting up. My prick was rigid, the tip wet with excitement.  This too, I should have remembered— and I had, obviously, or I’d not have switched our positions— that to be taken this way was, for me, so intensely stimulating that I was in danger of shouting the house down.  Already I could feel the warning signs of my impending crisis: the tightness of my bollocks, the rising pressure in my groin, the heaviness of my cock.

“Should I—” Watson began, easing his hips out and back in again, and I shook my head hard, still gripping his backside.

“Do,” I gasped, “exactly what you want to do.  Just—” as he gained confidence and began to sod me slowly, “just that, oh, God!”

“Yes?” he asked, breathless, his hands leaving my hips to run restlessly across my back and ribs.  I let go of his thigh to prop myself up on my elbows again, my head hanging and my hands clenched in the sheets in front of my face, and he came to grip the curve of my right shoulder.  He began to fuck me harder, his hips snapping against my arse, and I gritted my teeth against the sob that wanted to escape me.  It was perfect.  I could have died in that moment and perished a happy man.  His strong hand on my shoulder was so familiar, so assured and trusting, and his prick inside me reached depths I had forgotten ached to be touched.  He was no longer hesitant, and when I growled, “More!” he obliged, driving himself into me with devastating force and grunting with every thrust.

 I was beginning to shake with the effort of not coming off too soon, and my control was slipping.  My hand crept towards my stiff, dripping prick, and at the first touch I knew it was all over.  Nothing I could do now would stop me from reaching orgasm, and so I embraced it, squeezing myself roughly and clenching down tight on Watson’s cock.  My prick surged in my grip and I buried my face in the pillows as I came, the short, sharp bursts of pleasure overwhelming me, bringing tears to my eyes.

Watson, God love him, fucked me through it, even as I felt him stiffen and begin to spurt. I had surprised him, I thought proudly, still shuddering with the aftershocks. My hips ached with the strain of his intrusion, and yet when we fell together to the sheets, I was loathe to let him go. I allowed myself to be rolled to the side so that I did not suffocate.

We lay silent for a while, Watson breathing heavily against the back of my shoulder, his hand gripping mine in the middle of my chest.

"That," he said eventually, and cleared his throat, "was nothing like making love with a woman, you tremendous liar."

I snorted and eased myself away, feeling the sluggish spill of his seed down the backs of my thighs. Embarrassed, and futilely aroused by the sensation, I squirmed onto my back. "I'll have to take your word for it," said I.

He propped himself up on one elbow and rested his head in the cradle of his hand. I looked up to find his eyes shining down at me, the perfect curve of his lips turned up in a smile.  I cupped his cheek and brushed my thumb across the bristle of his moustache, absorbing every detail of his face at this proximity.

He leaned in to press a kiss to my mouth, disrupting this study, and I allowed it.  When he pulled away it was to transfer his kisses to the front of my sweat-damp shoulder.  I carded my hand through his hair and let my eyes drift shut, content to revel in his attentions.  Finally, he looked up again.

“What else is there?” he asked.  I opened my eyes.  He was blushing.

“What else?” I teased.  “Wasn’t that enough to satisfy you for a while?”

He bit his lip.  “Yes,” he admitted.  “I’m not as young as I was, and I suspect it would be rather foolish to attempt more just at the moment, but...”  He trailed off, his fingertips playing idly across my abdomen.

“Why, my dear Watson,” I said, “you shall just have to wait and find out.”


	3. Chapter 3

Several months after Watson risked everything and admitted that his affection for me had crossed a significant boundary (my own affection for him notwithstanding, as it had long ago left that boundary far behind), we attended a concert in the West End, whose programme was ultimately unimportant. Emerging from the concert hall late that evening, and high upon the wings of the music still singing in my blood, I took a long, appreciative look at Watson in his top hat and tails and made a snap decision. When we stepped into the cab, I gave an address that was not our own, and he glanced at me in confusion as I drew the curtains closed.

"What's all this?" he asked.

I smiled at him and took his hand, pressing a kiss to it in the safe, dark cab interior. "I have a surprise for you," said I.

"In Cavendish Square?"

"Not precisely," I said. "There is something to be said for a bit of discretion."

Watson narrowed his eyes, and then, remembering that we still held hands, lifted his eyebrows in comprehension. "Ah."

"Quite so."

The cab ride took ten minutes, and as we emerged onto the pavement I took Watson's arm. He drew breath, as if to ask where in hell we were going, but I hushed him with a look. We walked several streets in the direction we had come and turned down a side street, away from prying eyes, though still within the limits of a respectable neighbourhood. Finally, having nearly missed it in the gloom, I stopped at a discreet door that under any other circumstances might have been the side entrance to a shop, and knocked.

After a moment, the door was opened by a butler in a starched collar, who looked us over impassively for a moment, and then stepped back.

"Mr Holmes," he said stiffly. "May I inquire who your guest is?"

"This is my companion, Doctor Watson," I said. "He is entirely to be trusted."

The butler, whose name I recalled was Warren, would not have appeared to have changed expression to anyone less observant than I. As it was, however, I detected the sparkle of amusement and joy in his eye as he said, "Please come in, gentlemen," and took our coats.

I led Watson down the narrow hallway past the coat room to the lounge, where more than two dozen gentlemen of various ages and professions were talking and smoking and laughing together. Beyond the lounge was the billiards room, and beyond that a little dining room that was supplied by what I remembered to be a perfectly magnificent kitchen.

"Holmes," Watson said, tugging on my jacket cuff, "is this your club? Why've you never mentioned it before?"

"It isn't my club, exactly," I said, turning to him. "I used to be a regular member, but… well, recently, it hasn't been an issue."

" _What_ hasn't been an issue? Holmes, you're being very opaque, as usual—"

"Look around, please," I said, "and observe."

Watson rolled his eyes and obeyed, taking a second look at the men in the lounge. I watched his expression pinch in confusion and irritation, and then soften and grow awed as he understood.

"Holmes," he breathed, "have you brought me to an inverts' club?"

"Yes," I said.

"But it looks just like any other club," Watson protested, peering at the other members and trying not to be obvious about it. He was doing a dreadful job. There were no rent boys visible in the lounge, though Watson appeared to be scrutinising the clientele in order to identify one.

"Yes, well, it _is_ like any other club," said I, putting aside for the moment the thought of the rooms upstairs I had had occasion to use a few times, before Watson had come into my life. "Except for… one or two primary differences. Would you like a drink?"

"I think that would help," Watson said, and I took his hand to lead him to the bar. He almost pulled away, but when I squeezed his fingers tightly between mine, he smiled shyly and relaxed. "Right," he said. "Yes."

I didn't recognise the young man tending bar, nor many of the other occupants of the lounge, but it had been a very long time since I'd been here. Watson sipped his brandy and stared, and I held his hand in mine and traced the lines of his palm and the whorls of his fingertips, memorising them. It felt so natural to caress him that way, so innocently, without carnal intentions; just appreciating the delicate strength of his fingers, the broadness of his palm, the bumps of his knuckles. I even lifted that hand to my chest and placed it over my heart, and Watson's smile was beatific.

"This feels so strange," he said, when I had released him. "Can I kiss you? Here?"

"If you like," said I, hoping he would. "They do have some guidelines about appropriate behaviour in the public rooms, but I understand a little show of affection—"

He kissed me. It was brief and slightly off-target, but his grin afterwards was well worth it. I touched my fingertips to my lips.

"And you come here as yourself?" he wondered aloud. 

The non-sequitur made me blink. "Yes," I said. "It's a precautionary measure; all the members are required to use their real names. It's quite reassuring, actually. And I'd have to be doing a much better job at disguising myself than turning up at the door with you by my side."

Watson smiled. "You do cut such a dashing figure, I'm surprised you aren't stopped regularly for your autograph."

"That's very unhelpful to a private detective," I muttered. "I knew we shouldn't have let that Paget fellow do a portrait."

"Oh, please, that was ages ago."

"You describe me too much."

"I'll describe you as much as I like," Watson said, laughing. "I can't seem to help myself."

"You embarrass me terribly," I said, and signalled for another drink.

 

We spent almost an hour there at the bar, Watson staring openly at the gentlemen who surrounded us, and I enjoying my drink and his company. There were several couples in our immediate vicinity who were making no secret of their attachments. Two young men not ten feet away were sitting with their arms around one another, smoking one cigar between them. I wondered if I'd made a mistake, bringing John Watson here. He is terribly attractive, the model of British manliness, and I found myself worrying that he might be approached. He might get a better offer than the inconsiderate, arrogant, skinny detective he'd arrived with. I doubted anyone else in the room had ever faked their own death and travelled to the Far East.

But every time someone came near, either to lean past us to get the attention of the bartender, or to engage us in some polite conversation, Watson would scoot closer to me, looking to me for reassurance. I took his hand again, threading our fingers together as we discussed the threat of fog on the morrow with a bank manager in his forties, and Watson couldn't keep his smile in check. The bank manager had the good grace to promptly go away.

After that, Watson got a bit bolder, and we moved from the bar to the billiards room. He makes friends effortlessly, and in a minute or two he was engaged in a game. I watched from the sidelines, sharing elbow-space with a medical man, as Watson trounced his opponents soundly. I admit I was rather more interested in the stretch of his trousers over his backside than in his bank-shots, but I applauded at the appropriate times and only made him blush with a lascivious look once.

During the course of the game, I got to talking with my companion, a lecturer at the college who had read my monograph upon the formation of post-mortem contusions and wanted to congratulate me on it. He had also heard of my somewhat recent—and, to the public, still relevant—return to England, and pressed me for details on my travels. Since Watson and I had a somewhat unspoken agreement not to discuss the three years I had been abroad, I found myself warming quickly to the idea of sharing my experience with another person, someone to whom whether or not I had enjoyed myself would not be a matter of personal concern.

We were speaking in low tones, this medical man and I, when I felt a hand on my back, and the smell of Watson's tobacco filled my awareness. I looked up to find him with his attention fixed on my companion, his jaw set and his eyes blazing.

"I think I'd like to be going, Holmes," he said.

"Yes, of course," said I. "Is something the matter?"

"Nothing at all," Watson said evenly, but when he looked at me I felt my stomach drop. Warmth clenched in my gut, and my heart began to race.

I bid the lecturer a goodnight, and Watson's hand stayed firmly planted in the middle of my back as we departed. He didn't take it away until we were being handed our coats, and then he helped me into mine and went so far as to button it for me. I had an inkling of what was going on. As we left, I tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" I asked as we made our way out of the side street and onto a main thoroughfare once more. We were only a mile or so from home, and it was only midnight. There were people all around, and no one paid us any mind.

Watson inclined his head. "Yes," he said, "I suppose I did."

"Sometimes," I went on, "a fellow just wants to be among his ilk. I think of it as a _salon_ , a place for conversation, where one can be himself without worrying."

"I don't think we should go back," Watson said, lowering his voice as a young couple passed us.

"Why-ever not?" I asked, affecting innocence. "You just said—"

"I know what I said," Watson snapped, and then clenched his jaw. "I don't like to think of you there," he said, "with all those— those—"

"Inverts?" I offered blithely.

"Other men."

We had stopped walking. I resisted the urge to smile, and instead tugged him into motion once more.

"You flatter me," I said. "In the years that I was a regular member, I only had occasion to use the private rooms three times."

"Private rooms?" Watson interjected. "Three times!"

"As I said, I consider it a place of conversation."

Watson clamped my hand between his bicep and his ribs, holding me firmly in place. "I am aware," he said, "that as a rule you don't explain yourself."

I swallowed hard.

"But tonight you are going to be doing a very great deal of explaining."

"Fair enough," said I.

We walked the rest of the way back to Baker Street in silence. It was not, however, an oppressive silence. Watson kept me close to him, having folded his hand over mine in the crook of his elbow. It was a possessive hold, and it made me blush, grateful for the late hour. I couldn't have escaped if I'd tried, and the knowledge sent warmth tingling through my blood. My overcoat kept me suitable for public observance, but as the distance we had yet to cover closed, walking became more and more uncomfortable.

Watson made it worse at the door of 221 by letting me go and allowing me to get my key in the lock. Then he stepped up on the stair behind me, fit the palm of his broad hand to the curve of my arse, and gave me a very firm squeeze. I fumbled the door open and fairly shot up the stairs to our sitting room.

When we had divested ourselves of overcoats and jackets, and I had slipped my dressing gown on over my shirtsleeves and waistcoat, I poured Watson another drink and sat down with him on the settee. He sat up quite straight, and no amount of subtle coaxing with my hand on his back or my arm along the top of the couch would induce him to relax. The brandy would have to do its work, and I mine.

"All right," I said, "you have questions."

"Yes," Watson said, shoring himself up. "What on earth did you mean, private rooms?"

"I'm sure you can guess," I said. "Like any other club; you said it yourself."

He sighed and gave me a look of deep exasperation. "Holmes."

This time, the touch of my hand made him turn, and I slid my fingers up to rest on the curve of his shoulder. He was warm through his shirt. His bottom lip was red where he'd been biting it, and his forehead was furrowed. He was more jealous than I'd imagined. I'd been showing off tonight; I thought I'd been showing _him_ off, but he'd thought I'd been making a fool of him.

"Oh, my boy," I said softly. "There's nothing to fret about."

"Really, now," he grumbled, embarrassed.

"Before I knew you," I said, "I went there for companionship. My brother may be one of the most un-clubbable men in London, but I am even less so. It was artificial, and ridiculous, and yet I felt like I had at least one damn thing in common with everyone there. It's not so difficult to meet other men," I admitted, "if you know where and how to look, but it's so much bloody _work._ "

"You were going to tell me about the private rooms."

"On three occasions," I said, laying out my words carefully, for my own sake as well as his, "I found enough in common with another fellow to go to bed with him, but not enough to be interested in sharing _my_ bed."

Watson's frown deepened. He shifted, pulling away from me, crossing one leg over the other. I leaned back against the settee arm and put one foot up on the seat so that I could tuck my stockinged toes under his thigh. He glanced at me sideways and huffed softly through his nose in acknowledgement. 

I smiled. "You're wondering how many times I've done the latter," I said.

"Of course I am." Watson shifted his glass to the other hand and reached down to touch my ankle, then curled his fingers about my shin.

"Twice," said I, "and you know about Victor already."

Watson's smile in response was rather weak. "And the other?"

"Really?" I asked. "Watson, you're being deliberately obtuse." I nudged him with my toes. " _You_ , my boy. You."

He blinked for a moment. "Ah."

"Yes."

"But—"

"What? Don't you believe me?"

"No, I do," he said, squeezing my leg, "but—why, you could have your pick of the men in that place. Surely you saw the way they looked at you."

"You have made my name famous," said I. "I'm better known in some circles than I'd like to be."

Watson snorted. "Be that as it may, it wasn't your name that caught their attention."

"It wasn't their attention I wanted." I sat up, folding my leg under myself. This brought me right up against him, and I slid my arm around his shoulders. With the other hand, I plucked his glass from his fingers and set it aside. "You must think me an absolute tart," I said.

"No!" he cried. "No, to be quite honest, I'm certain that my conquests outnumber yours, but it's not— well it's not as if they can be compared, exactly. You don't sleep with women, so you're not at all interested in learning how to go about it."

"That is entirely true," I agreed. "John, I'd rather teach you a hundred things a hundred times than have the most skilful lover there lay a hand on me once."

He blushed beautifully and ducked his head, his hand on my ankle sliding up to pause briefly on my knee, then continue down the length of my thigh. I caressed the back of his neck and pushed my fingertips into his short hair.

"A hundred things?" he said. His voice had deepened, which suggested arousal had begun to supplant his anxiety.

"A hundred times," I promised, brushing my lips against the curve of his ear. He shuddered, his hand tightening on my leg, and when he turned his head his lips were already parted for my kiss. I kissed him slowly, leisurely, as if I wasn't on fire for him. My prick was stiffening once more at the thought of what I could teach him tonight. "Would you like to learn something now?" I asked when we parted.

He was breathless. "Yes."

"Very good," I said, and slid off the settee onto my knees. I moved between his legs and laid my hands on his thighs, looking up into his face. "Now," I said seriously, "pay very close attention. I will not ask for your reciprocation just now, but it might come in handy at a later time."

Watson snorted and stroked a hand down my neck to caress my shoulder beneath my dressing gown. "You're going to do something very lewd, aren't you?"

"You're going to be horrified," I promised, shucking the dressing gown and my waistcoat with it, freeing myself of my collar and the top button of my shirt at the same time. I was already risking a very good pair of trousers by going to my knees in them. Watson watched me from beneath his eyelashes as I did the same for him and tugged the tails of his shirt from his trousers. His thumb rubbed a slow circle in the hollow of my collarbone, and his cock was a heavy line in his drawers.

"Oh, God," he said in realisation as I unfastened his trousers and untied those drawers, baring him to the air. "You're going to— isn't that quite—?"

I beamed up at him. "Quite," I agreed, my fingers playing along his length. My mouth was watering in anticipation. I pressed my thumb slowly against the underside of his head, relishing the way his prick twitched in response and a bead of fluid welled up at the tip.

"Holmes," he whispered. He was biting his lip again.

"Have you ever had it done, my boy?" I asked.

"Yes," he admitted hoarsely. He shifted on the settee, pushing his hips into my hand. "Ah, there was a— a girl, in Kandahar. I was— quite young."

"And you enjoyed it?" God, teasing him was the best thing I'd ever done. I leaned towards him and blew a breath across his exposed tip, watching the shudder run through him. He was so delightfully embarrassed, so helplessly aroused, and he was loving it as much as I was. I wet my lower lip with my tongue and he squeezed his eyes shut before he nodded. His hand clenched on the cushion beside him. I took my chance while his eyes were still closed and touched the tip of my tongue to the tip of his cock.

He blew out a curse on a breath, and I licked him again, slowly. Beneath my hand, his thigh was rigid. I took his cock head between my lips and sealed my mouth closed around him, tasting the slick salt of his arousal. Then I let him slip free, applying my tongue instead to his glans where it was exposed as his foreskin pulled back.

Tasting him made my blood surge, and I closed my eyes to immerse myself in my other senses. The smell of his arousal was thick and heady and deliciously familiar now, and I could hear the shallowness of his breathing, even as he tried to control it. His flesh under my tongue yielded on the surface and was steel underneath, and as I took him deeper it stretched my mouth and stopped my breath.

Watson's fingers were in my hair, caressing shyly, and I reached up to press his palm more firmly to the curve of my skull. He hissed as I sank down under the pressure of his grip, and his cock twitched in my mouth. His hips rose to meet me, and I had to struggle to accommodate him.

"Oh, god," Watson said, trying to pull away, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

I silenced him with a shake of my head and reestablished his grip on my hair. A little rough treatment was nothing; in fact, it had my prick straining in my drawers. I let go of his leg to palm myself, as if that would provide any relief. My other hand I closed around the column of his cock and I began to stroke him as I sucked, my fingers meeting my lips on every other pass. I wanted him whimpering, squirming, completely undone. I wanted to watch him come apart at the seams. I wanted to hear him beg me for mercy. I wanted to consume him, to possess him, to convince him, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that there was no competition when it came to him.

He was shaking, biting back little noises of pleasure as I worked. His hands roamed restlessly across my shoulders and neck, alternately massaging and clinging as I changed my pace, swallowed him deep and then tongued at his tip, gripped him tight and sucked him hard. In less than ten minutes, I could feel the muscles in his abdomen tensing, his hips hitching, his cock swelling, all heralding his peak. I clutched at his thigh for balance as I worked him furiously, and suddenly I was being shoved violently away, Watson's hand slipping under mine to squeeze down hard on the base of his cock. His back was arched and his thighs splayed wide, and his hand on my shoulder was like iron.

"Dear God," I croaked, "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"Ngh," Watson said, his grip on both me and himself relaxing, "no, I was— I was nearly there."

"Yes," I agreed, "quite my objective, actually."

"No, you don't understand," Watson insisted, cupping my face and pushing a lock of hair away from my forehead, "I was—"

"Yes," I said again, "nearly _there_ , I heard you. I could feel it, too. I am a detective, you know."

He grinned sheepishly. His face was flushed and his eyes were shining. He was a sight, his collar ends undone and his trousers gaping, his gleaming-wet cock poking out of his fly. "But surely you don't—"

"My dear boy," I said, pushing his hand away and taking him in my grip once more, "I shall not insult you by telling you what _you_ want, and I would be very grateful if you would afford me the same courtesy." I pressed a kiss to the head of his cock, which was leaking copiously and slid deliciously over my bottom lip. "I want to fellate you, and I want you to finish in my mouth," I said, feeling my face heat, "so unless you object on anything other than moral grounds, leave me to it."

"Christ, you're a deviant," he said, but he said it fondly, and as I bent to my task once more he groaned aloud. Despite the interruption, he was still very much on edge, and it only took a few sucking pulls to have him trembling again. This time his hand in my hair was firm, not pushing but guiding me as I moved up and down, and when I stilled for a moment he went so far as to thrust his hips upwards in desperation. He was gasping and whimpering, exactly as I'd hoped. His bollocks were trapped under the fly of his trousers—I'd been impatient and obviously not thinking clearly— but I pressed against them with my knuckles to feel their weight through the wool and he went absolutely rigid. His cock swelled and his hips shot up, and a moment later my mouth was flooded with his climax.

I swallowed and held him and swallowed again, suckling the last of it out of him, feeling him shake and twitch under my hands. He had clapped a hand over his mouth at the last second, muffling his shout, for which I was very grateful. Nothing would ruin the mood more than the household coming to see what was the matter. Not that it would stop me.

I let him slip free and wiped my mouth on the back of my hand. Before he could recover, I was up and unfastening my trousers, pushing them down around my thighs and climbing into his lap. My cock stood out proudly, but I ignored it for just a moment longer, turning instead to unbutton Watson's shirt from his clavicle to his navel. He caught on and helped, though together we had little more manual dexterity than a pair of cats. When it was done, I cupped his face and I kissed him, and he manfully did not recoil from the taste of himself on my lips. Rather, he pulled me close and thrust his tongue into my mouth, as if he were trying to lick it all away. I groaned, grinding myself against his bare belly. He put his hand between us and began to frig me, reading me as skilfully as ever. I shuddered in his arms, clutching his shoulders, and it only took a minute before I was edging towards my own orgasm.

"Watson," I managed, "touch me."

"I-" he protested, and then he caught my meaning, sparing me from saving it aloud. His other hand left my ribs and skidded down the length of my spine, and he slipped his fingers into the crevasse of my backside. One press of his fingertips against my hole, and I was spending myself with a groan.

"Thank you for saving my shirt," he said against my ear, as I panted and trembled.

"Oh, you're dreadful," I sighed. I sagged against him, careful to keep my own shirt out of the mess I'd made on his abdomen, and then climbed carefully off. We sat limply for a minute or so, side by side, our littlest fingers linked.

"I think I'd like to try it on you sometime," Watson said finally. "That was, er…. 'ecstatic,' I suppose, is a good word."

"Good," I said. "I think I've made my point."

"Whatever it was."

"Whatever it was," I agreed.

"Shall we have a wash and retire to our bed?" he offered.

"Yes," I said, leaning over to kiss him once more. "I think we shall."


	4. Chapter 4

"I want to try…" Watson started, and stopped to clear his throat.  "I want you to have me," he said eventually, after a moment, and took my hand in his, guiding it suggestively down his back to the curve of his arse.  "I want to know how it feels."

I swallowed hard, trying to stay conscious as all the blood in my body seemed to rush with enthusiasm to my stiffen my prick.  "Oh," I said, "indeed."

He grinned cheekily.  "Catch you off guard, did I?"

"A bit," I admitted.  Only moments before we'd been talking about Petrarch.  It seemed the most inappropriate change of subject I could imagine, and yet I felt no objection whatsoever.

"You— you seem to like it," Watson went on, while I squeezed his rear appreciatively and pressed a kiss to his temple.  Then he snorted.  "That's an understatement, shame on me; you go a bit mad, and I want to know why."

Brave boy.  I wondered if he'd been contemplating this long.  He'd done me the very great favour of using his mouth upon me on two separate occasions now, and though he had not quite reached the point of initiating a sexual encounter—he would bring it up casually, and it would be I who touched him first—he was quite comfortable with our regular bouts of athletic and mutually satisfying intercourse.  He slept in my bed more often than not, and kissed me good morning, good afternoon, and goodnight.  We had solved two murders, three cases of "lost handkerchiefs," a burglary, and a kidnapping since our affair began.  We had had several significant rows—mostly minor disagreements and one a shouting match that brought Mrs Hudson upstairs to reprimand us—and each time we had solved the matter by bringing one another to shattering orgasm on the various surfaces in the flat.  Making up after the shouting match had been the best one, and I'd been deliciously sore all over for days.

"Tonight," I promised.

He looked a little disappointed.

"It's three in the afternoon," I protested.

"It hasn't stopped us before," Watson said.

I laughed and kissed him again.  "Well," I said, "that is true enough, but there are a few things that you and I must, separately, do to prepare."

When I told him what they were, specifically having to do with hygiene, he blushed redder and redder until I was afraid he was going to faint.  He covered his face with his hands, and I felt I'd made myself clear.  I hadn’t expected such explanations to shock a doctor as worldly as my good Doctor, but, then again, until recently he had never considered himself a candidate for the role of Ganymede.

Three hours later, we still couldn't meet one another's gaze without giggling.  Mrs Hudson muttered about us being a pair of loons as she was serving dinner.  

By the time we could reasonably turn in for the night, I was already half-hard with anticipation.  Watson assured me in an undertone that he was quite ready, and we locked the doors behind us.

I didn’t want this to be a rushed encounter, so I slowed his hands and made him undress me as I did him, taking the time to kiss his collarbones as they were exposed, to rub my thumb across the crater in the hollow of his shoulder, to run my hands down the strong line of his back and caress the soft paunch of his belly.  His prick was fat and heavy between his legs, and it swelled to full erection when I gave it a nuzzle and a kiss.

When I rose to my feet again, he finished divesting me of my braces and shirt, then my trousers and pants.  We stood naked in front of one another, looking our fill, the low lamplight turning our heated flesh to gold and amber.  Watson was holding himself still, unashamed under my gaze, but his hands on my hips were very slightly unsteady.

“We don’t have to do this,” I offered softly.  “I’m very happy with the way things stand.”

He smiled and gave my hipbones a squeeze.  “As am I,” he said, “but I’m determined to know what you know.”

“Well,” said I, pursing my lips against a smile, “that’s a rather larger field of expertise, and I’ve been trying for years--”

“Oh, do shut up,” Watson said, and turned me ‘round to push me towards the bed.  

I went willingly, and pulled him down beside me.  We kissed, shifting and manoeuvring one another until we were as close as two bodies could get, his leg hooked over my hip, my arms around his shoulders and ribs.  The hair on his chest was springy soft against my smooth skin, and his broad hand curved perfectly along the line of my spine.  His kiss was slow and skilful, warming me from the inside out.  His moustache against my lip and cheek sent tingling pleasure across my nerves.

The petroleum jelly was within reach, and when I opened the jar to smooth it on my fingers, Watson went quiet and tucked his forehead in against my clavicle, breathing shallowly against my chest.  We rearranged once more, and his stiff tool brushed against my belly.  I slipped my arm underneath the crook of his knee and touched him softly, my slick fingers on his heavy, furred bollocks.  He huffed and nuzzled in closer, clinging to my bicep.  I dug my teeth into the curve of his shoulder and insinuated myself further between his legs, seeking the tight, secret warmth of his entrance.

For a few minutes that felt like eternity, I rubbed the petrolatum into his skin, massaging and coaxing, feeling the tremors in his frame and listening to the soft, appreciative murmuring that escaped from his throat.  His pulse under my lips was rabbit-fast, and his skin was covered with a fine sheen of sweat that was divine on my tongue.  I worried a little purple mark into the flesh of his shoulder and leaned back to admire my handiwork.

“I think,” Watson murmured, “that a little forward motion would not go awry.”

I happened to agree.  I reapplied the jelly and went back to work, introducing the tip of my middle finger to the inside of his person, saying, "Push back— just— oh, that's perfect." He sucked in a breath and said something shocking about my fingers, something he'd never put in the _Strand._ I laughed and pressed in deeper.

He was tight around my finger, hot as a furnace, and squirming deliciously. I worked at him slowly, shallowly, until the clench of his passage was not so devastatingly strong. My other hand was caressing him, distracting him, running over his chest in various unplanned patterns. He was not, I'd been quick to notice, as sensitive as I was when it came to his nipples, and so he did not particularly enjoy them pinched or rubbed or nibbled, but carding my fingers through the hair on his chest had returned some very lovely results. His cock bobbed and leaked between us, occasionally bumping against mine. After a few minutes I risked adding a second finger, and his face pinched in a moment of discomfort, though he mastered it and I felt him relax again.

The first time a man had done this to me, I'd nearly wept with pleasure. Victor had gorgeous hands and an exquisite delicacy of touch, and the first time he'd fingered me to orgasm I thought I'd died. When I repeated the experiment upon myself I'd been worried I wouldn't be able to replicate the sensation, but I'd been delighted to find out how wrong I was. Teaching John Watson to do it had been heaven itself.

I took note of his breathing, his pulse, the shift of his muscles; everything that could tell me without words what he felt. His hands clenched and unclenched between us, and his kisses became uncoordinated.

"Onward?" I asked, my heart in my throat. First, he gave me his friendship; later, he gave me his forgiveness; now, he was giving me knowledge of his body entire, and I wasn't certain I deserved it. But I was going to try. When he nodded, I pulled my hand away and rolled him smoothly onto his back. He cradled me between his knees and ran his fingers through my hair as I aligned myself and pressed inside.

Our bodies slipped against one another, the heat of the room doubled by our eagerness. Watson held onto me as I began to move. His eyes were shut tight.

"It's all right," I murmured against his mouth. "Relax."

He swallowed hard and met my eyes. His smile was strained. "I'm trying," he said, "it's very—intense."

I kissed him again. "Give it a moment," I said. I kept my thrusts small and steady, ignoring the urge to rut and claim. I gripped the bed beneath him to keep myself in check. Sweat ran freely down my spine and prickled in the backs of my knees.

Soon he nodded. "Go ahead."

God, he was exquisite. I could feel the power of his body, the strength of his thighs and hands, the grip of his arse around me. He was slick and hot, and it had been a long time since I'd indulged in something like this. The sensation was nothing like using my hand on myself or having my prick sucked. It was also nothing like _being_ fucked. How magnificent, that the human body be designed for so many avenues of pleasure. It went against everything I aspired to as a reasoning machine, but as a man in bed with his lover I appreciated it.

I began to increase my pace and the depth of my thrusts, closing my eyes and losing myself somewhat in the sensation. It was inexcusable. I wasn't paying attention to him like I should have been, and it took me far too long— several unforgivable minutes— to notice the tension in his body had not dissipated but increased, and the noises that escaped him were bitten-off grunts of discomfort. He was breathing heavily, steadily, through his nose, and his mouth was pinched tight. Between us, his prick was quite soft.

"Watson," I said, coming to an abrupt halt, "this isn't working."

He opened his eyes guiltily. "It's not—" he said, "exactly how I imagined it. Perhaps if I turned over?"

We separated carefully and he rolled onto his front, drawing up his knees. It was a lovely sight, I must admit: the curve of his spine, the muscles of his backside, the way his pale, parted thighs framed his bollocks. His toes curled in the sheets, and the hair on his legs was soft and rough all at once under my palms. I lay myself along his back and kissed his shoulders, covered his hands with mine, pressed my forehead to the nape of his neck. His moan this time was more wanton, and so I eased myself back in.

Again I started slowly, gauging his reaction and ignoring my own arousal. I could picture myself in his position, being penetrated for the first time, struggling to keep my voice down. I wanted something inside me then and I spared a moment to calculate the physical impossibility of it. It didn't feel entirely natural, being atop him like this. I was in control so much of the time—of myself, of my cases, of Watson's assistance, of a room full of Scotland Yard detectives—that it was a relief to have someone to give it away to. The role of tutor suited me, however, and I wanted so badly for him to enjoy this.

I nudged his knees apart with mine and pressed deeper. I straightened my spine and took hold of his hips. His shoulders were taut, and he'd crossed his arms over his head to hide his face. A few shallow, half-hearted thrusts were all I needed to determine the truth.

"John," I said.

"I'm sorry!" he burst out. "I'm trying, it's just— I don't—"

I pulled out, my stomach sunk low with shame, and I couldn't ignore his sigh of relief. "My God, man," I said, "don't apologise to me."

"It was my idea," he said, his voice muffled by the pillows. "I should have—"

I pulled him to roll over and tucked myself along his side, trying to ignore the insistent jut of my prick. "No," I said, silencing him, "you should enjoy yourself, that's bloody all, and I'm not going to carry on doing something you don't enjoy just because you thought it might be a good idea in the first place."

Watson peeked out from underneath his fingers. I leaned over and kissed his exposed cheek.

"Tell me truthfully, and do not try to deceive me to spare my ego," I said. "Do you want to continue in that vein, or not?"

He shook his head very slightly. I kissed him again.

"Very well."

"I'm sorr—"

"I said, don't apologise." My right hand was still slippery with petroleum jelly, so I pressed it to his ribs rather than his face. "I must admit I was coming to rather the same conclusion."

Watson raised an eyebrow.

"You know how much I enjoy it the other way 'round," I said, blushing despite myself. "I think we might as well maintain that status quo."

Now it was he who demanded I make eye-contact. He turned on his side to face me and put his palm on my cheek. "Well," said he, "If I have learned nothing else over the last few months, I do know that there is more to it than that single arrangement."

I began to smile. I leaned in to kiss him. "You make an excellent pupil," said I. "In that regard."

"Oh, for shame," he said, and wrestled me onto my back, pinning me with his hips and hands. I gave in instantly, groaning. He kissed me deeply and rubbed his reawakening cock against my stiff-standing one.

"I'm only joking," I gasped, as he began to bite at my neck and collarbones. "You notice and observe so much more than you used to. I think I've trained you quite well."

"You are the most conceited man I know," Watson said, but I could feel his smile against my skin. He brushed his lips and the bristle of his moustache across my left nipple until I was writhing. Then he reached to the side and retrieved the jar of petroleum jelly, of which he smeared a generous helping between us. His cock slid easily alongside mine, full and hot and hard. 

I wrapped my legs around his waist and clung to his shoulders. "Have me," I offered, in a whisper.

"With all my heart," he replied.

In a scant few minutes it was over, though we tried to drag it out. Watson rested with his head on my shoulder and his knees under my hips, his hands tucked beneath my shoulder blades. I panted at the ceiling and measured his heart rate against my chest. Our mingled emission threatened to stick us together. When his pulse had nearly returned to normal and I could bear to let him draw away, we parted with a slow, decadent kiss, and wiped one another clean.

Later, curled together beneath the quilts, he said, "Thank you."

"Whatever for?" I asked, pressing his hand between mine.

He was silent for a moment, and then he said, "Everything. Just everything."

I kissed his fingertips and the palm of his hand in reply, not trusting my own voice. _Everything_ covered an awful lot of ground, and I didn't know how much of it he truly meant.

 

Despite this meaningful expression of gratitude, I feared that our misadventure would haunt us. Watson slipped out of bed the next morning when he thought I was still asleep, and I listened miserably to the sound of him drawing a bath. Washing away the evidence, I thought. I'd reached the end of my scandalous expertise, and with nothing new to offer him and that disaster as our final experiment, I was practically convinced he would put an end to the whole thing. But then he crept back into the bedroom in his dressing gown, his hair still damp and his skin pink from the heat, and kissed my cheek, saying, "The water's still warm if you want it."

We ignored one another companionably all day, when just before tea Inspector Jones paid us a visit. He had a pretty little problem that he assured me he'd have sorted in a day or two, but he made excuses and said his superiors wanted my input. Jones is an idiot, of course, but at least Lestrade has the sense to go over his head when it's necessary.

Watson was putting on his coat before I'd even agreed to take a look at the conundrum, and I followed his lead gladly. We promised to make it up to Mrs Hudson and joined Jones in the four-wheeler to Scotland Yard. It was the matter of the arsonist's wedding ring, which Watson will no doubt write up as one of my "Adventures," and it kept me occupied for nearly a week. I simply forgot to worry about what Watson thought of being ineffectively sodomised, until six and a half days later when he stripped me of my jacket and swept me bodily onto the sitting room settee.

"I want you madly," he said, crawling between my legs, his fingers already nimbly parting the buttons of my waistcoat.

"Good God, Watson," I protested, grasping his lapels and dropping my head back on the arm as he began to kiss my jaw and neck. Escaping from nearly being burned to death did glorious things for the libido.

"You're bloody brilliant, you know that?"

"Yes, you've expressed it so many times I've started to believe it," I agreed, laughing, as he ground his hips hard into mine.

"God, I love you," Watson said, unfastening my collar and the top buttons of my shirt.

"I know," I said, cupping his face and pressing a kiss to his lush, lovely mouth. "And I you."

He murmured an affirmative and kissed me in return.

"I'm sorry about last week," I said.

"What?" He stopped confused, and then said, "Oh, God! No, please don't— it didn't work, perhaps we won't do it again, or perhaps we will; it does't matter." He kissed his way down my sternum as he bared it. "We were learning together, you and I, and it's a bit of a tumble sometimes, but it doesn't matter what we do." He rested his hands on my belly and looked up at me. I slid my fingers into his hair and gazed at him. The colour was high in his cheeks and his eyes were shining like the sun off the ocean. "You're here," he said more softly, "and I am at your side, and we are safe and well and contented to be so."

My eyes stung. I blinked rapidly and cleared my throat. The smoke from the aborted arson attempt was still affecting me, it seemed.

"Now," Watson said, his smile turning positively smug, "will you let an expert work?"


End file.
